Crossing the Line
by Keeper of War
Summary: What would happen if Batman snapped? What if his law against killing was one day broken? In Crossing the Line, the Joker's death at the hands of the Dark Knight has extreme ramifications, and will changed Gotham forever. Rated Teen for some language
1. Chapter 1

The mad cackling echoed over the rooftops and chilled Batman to the bone. "It's just a joke, Batsy. Don't you get it? Or are you that dull?" Joker shrieked, before unleashing another torrent of bullets in Bruce's direction.

The spattered against the brick wall, but the barrier was wearing thin against Joker's constant onslaught. _Another confrontation, _Batman thought to himself, _another murder, another spree, another month spent without sleep while I stay a step behind him, until I finally catch up. How long has it been now? Years? A decade? How long can I keep doing this?_ In his mind he saw the hundreds dead at the hands of the clown. Women, children, families; how many would it take before he did what he dreamt of doing? Barbara could no longer walk, Jim spent weeks coping with what the Joker did to him, countless others were no longer alive to tell their horrific tale.

He dropped a smoke grenade and spun around the other side of the wall while Joker continued fire into the smoke, cackling and mumbling his deranged jokes to himself. _This ends today._

Batman spotted Harley Quinn on the opposite roof providing cover fire, but it was now or never to bring Joker down. Joker spun, aiming at Batman, but the shot was too high. The masked vigilante tackled him to the ground with shocking force, his anger beginning to boil over as he pictured every victim the Joker had claimed. Joker howled in pain as Batman gripped him even harder before he hit the ground. His muscles tensed as his anger took hold of him. _You deserve worse._ A _CRACK _was heard by both of the combatants.

Joker's voice was ragged now, and he reached feebly for his gun, which Batman kicked away. "I didn't think you had it in you, bats. A broken spine? For me? You shouldn't have." He grunted, and edged away from his assailant, each move coming slowly, and a raspy giggle leaked out.

"You go back to Arkham, Joker. Where you stay." Batman, hand shaking, reached for a zip-tie to restrain him, and knelt down. Suddenly, Harley found her voice.

A shot rang out, and Batman heard it strike the wall behind him. "You lay one finger on him and you'll be in tomorrow's obituaries, Bat-Breath!" She moved towards the wire Joker had set and began to cross between the two buildings slowly, but surely, as the gymnast she was. The rifle was aimed directly at Batman, and he was forced to keep his eye on the barrel of the gun, lest a well-aimed shot put him out of business.

He took a moment to reflect the nature of this poor girl's infatuation with such a sick man. She had been by his side for years now, helping him scheme, driving the getaway car, completely at his service. Harley had been such a bright girl, a clinical psychologist with a taste for the criminal. Something about Joker's complete madness had completely swallowed her up in his world of chaos. She truly loved him.

"What have you done?" She shouted, and Batman noticed tears now in her eyes. No theatrics now, but true, honest tears had begun streaming down her face. "Oh, my sweet! What has he done to you?" She knelt down, stroking Joker's face softly. He coughed sharply, and winced. "Shh, quiet now. We'll get this fixed up. I'm sure someone can fix this, right? And then I'll get you a new suit, purple, your favorite."

Batman slowly leaned in to grab the rifle, but Harley spun, aiming it at his head. "You will not touch us!" She shouted, her finger on the trigger. She resembled Joker's unkempt look; her blonde hair was now tangled and matted, her juvenile cap having fallen off and her makeup smearing into a multicolored mess of red, black, and white. "You get away from him, Batman!" She lunged a bit too far, and Batman grabbed the rifle from her grasp. He bent the barrel up and tossed it aside.

"You both stop here, Harley." He stepped towards her, but she retreated quickly, grabbing Joker's wrists and pulling him towards the cable to the other building. Batman stepped forward slowly, "What are you going to do, Harley? Carry him to the other side? Even I couldn't do that."

She looked up at him and almost seemed to growl, "You step any closer, and the building goes up. I'll take all three of us. Not to mention the poor saps inside." She pulled out a detonator from her pocket and waved it above her head. She gripped it while holding Joker's wrists, tugging his disabled form.

Batman stopped, as did his heart. _A backup plan. This is new._ He studied the scene, and then readied his muscles for a leap. _You aren't leaving, Joker._

Harley turned her head for just a moment to look back at where she was stepping, easing her foot to the ledge of the building, and Batman took his shot. He leapt towards her, yanking her free from her grip of the joker. Yet, it felt as though she was able to hold on for a just a little too long. As they both fell, he gripped the cable and reached for Harley. He grabbed her wrist, but she slashed at him with a razor, and he instinctively retracted his hand. She dropped three stories and rolled, crouching down to ease the impact on her knees. She looked up to the ledge and her face registered a look of utter horror.

Batman turned and saw Joker hanging over the edge, his upper body sliding off the building as his immobile legs were all that remained on the roof. Joker attempted a quick grab at the cable, but his finger slipped, and the momentum cancelled out any friction his legs could generate to keep him from falling. As he fell, he grinned at his adversary and closed his eyes.

The sound of metal piercing flesh hit Batman's ears and he looked down; Joker had fallen onto the wrought iron fence that bordered the building, his chest now pierced with three black metal spikes. Batman dropped to the ground and slowly stepped forward, his ears ringing. Joker coughed, crimson blood spilling from his lips, demonizing his already frightful smirk. He turned to Batman and let out a gurgling laugh, then stopped abruptly.

"It's about time you grew a pair, Bats." His body spasmed, the odd arch of his broken back made his legs quiver unnaturally.

Bruce studied the injuries slowly before staring blankly at Joker. He knew there was no way to salvage Joker from his fate. "Joker… This…" He stopped. What would he say? What could he possibly say to his dying nemesis? That he had it coming? That was not his way. Yet, death did not change what they were to each other. Joker's ending life did not change what he had done.

"Don't worry, Batsy. I know goodbyes aren't your strong suit." He drew in a wet, labored breath, and exhaled slowly. "Just promise me one thing."

Batman remained silent as the clown smiled and his eyes fluttered.

"Don't let my mom speak at the funeral. She never did approve of my career choice. AAHAHAHAHA!" His laugh bounced off of the walls around him, and caused blood to spurt from his gaping smile. The laughter dwindled before the Joker finally became limp, his head hanging backwards, blood dripping from his wounds.

The silence was deafening.

Batman reached to close his staring eyes, and let his breath out slowly. _What have I done?_ He thought to himself. As he collected his wits, he grew vaguely aware of the sound of approaching sirens. He knew Gordon would be here, and, not knowing how to face him after this, he knew that he must depart. He looked up at the rooftop and reached for his grappling hook. Before he tossed it, he turned for a last glimpse at the Joker, his adversary, opposite of him in every way. Harley dropped, speechless, to her knees and simply stared at her deceased love.

_I cannot be here._ He realized, and shot the hook over the ledge.

Harley held the hand of Joker and kissed it slowly, whimpering. "Don't worry, my love," she whispered, running her fingers through his hair, "I'll make this right." Harley pressed her forehead against his, smiling that he was still warm. "I'll always love you," She said, kissing him gently on the cheek. She turned, blood now shining red upon her face, and leapt up the building, somehow managing the strength to flee from Gordon and his men.

Just like that, her world had shattered into a thousand little pieces, scattered across the floor of her mind, bouncing around and breaking into smaller and smaller pieces. The Bat had taken from her the one thing she had in this world. So carelessly had he disposed of her love, and so carelessly did he flee the scene. Harley knelt on the top of a building and allowed herself to weep over the injustice, and weep she did.

The fire in her chest burst and burned her alive, the pain of a lost love consumed her and ravaged her. Tears poured from her eyes as she shook, gasping for breath, wailing violently, and shouting at the world for her misfortune. The Bat had taken her reason for life away. What more could she live for?

* * *

><p>Commissioner Gordon stepped out of his car and pulled his jacket in tight, attempting to keep the cold at bay. It was below freezing, and he was glad he had the heater fixed before the winter; he did not want Sarah and the children in a freezing home. It had been expensive, but it was worth it.<p>

He closed the car door, squinting as he saw the faces of his men that crowded around the crime scene: It was a mix of shock and worry, something he was not used to seeing with the hardened members of Gotham's police. He stepped under the yellow tape and was greeted by a young officer, "Commissioner."

"Officer Hall," Gordon nodded sharply before continuing his slow walk to the crowd, "You mind telling me what all the fuss is about, son?" His bristled mustache shimmered in the wind, condensation billowing out in the cold night air, leaving a slight fog on his large glasses.

The young man swallowed hard, keeping pace with Gordon, "Well, sir, we have a homicide. Looks like the victim was tossed off of the building onto an iron fence below. It'll be a little while till we confirm cause of death; we still haven't lifted him off of the metal spikes." He slowed as they neared the group.

"All this fuss for that? I've seen worse from Zsasz." Gordon stepped forward, pushing several men away from the center of the gathering. "What's so big about some poor bastard-"

His words died in his throat, caught in a flash of shock and confusion. Surely this couldn't be right. _I have got to be dreaming._ Gordon's mind attempted to wrap itself around what he was seeing, through the blood, through the flashing lights, through all of the clouds of emotions in his mind.

He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes for a moment, attempting to speak again, but finding no words. He simply stared. His gray, wizened eyes stared deep into the bright green one of the smiling clown that lay dead, impaled on a black metal fence.

He shook his head and turned away, still processing what he had seen. "How soon?"

Hall jogged over to him, "We are guessing about an hour now, Commissioner."

"Do we have any theories?" Gordon leaned against the wall and fought every urge in him to reach into his pocket for his last cigar.

A sigh, then, "Well, we've found Harley Quinn's hat at the scene."

Gordon frowned, "Harley? That doesn't make sense. Why would she-"

"She didn't." An all too familiar voice sounded from the alleyway, and Gordon's voice cut out.

"Dent?"

A man in jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt stepped from the shadows. He was stunningly attractive; the pinnacle of male beauty, with short, wavy brown hair, a chiseled chin, and dark brown eyes. His skin was fair and smooth, as though he had never aged past his young adulthood, and he had a strong, but slender build. The only visible imperfection was a faint scar that ran from under his hairline, down the middle of his face, and down his neck to his chest. "Harley didn't kill the Joker, Jim."

Hall stood for a moment, but as Dent stared him down with the fierce look he was known for, the young man took the hint and returned to his post. Gordon stood taller now, uneasy with Dent's presence at the scene of a crime. Gordon had always believed it was only a matter of time before Harvey's rehabilitation fell through, and they were chasing him and his secondary persona through the streets again.

"How do you know, Dent?"

"Because I was here." Harvey took out a pack of cigarettes, and drew one of them, lighting it and inhaling deeply. "Seems you trade one addiction for another, eh?"

Gordon snapped, "What are you _doing_ here, Harvey?"

Breathing out, Dent took a moment to crack his neck, loosening it up. "I have a light, if you'd like to break out that cigar you have in your pocket. We all know you aren't going to quit."

"God damnit, Harvey!" Gordon took a step forward.

"Alright, alright." Harvey pocketed his lighter. "Me and Bats have been working together lately. He has taken a particular interest in my rehabilitation."

"I'm aware of Batman's involvement in your case, and-"

"I don't particularly care how you feel about it, Jim. Save it." Harvey took another long drag and exhaled through his nostrils, "While running through information loops for our fellow vigilante, I learned that Joker had recently obtained the petition list to keep Gotham Park from being built over into a shopping center. He decided that he would exterminate everyone on that list."

Gordon began catching his breath, his heart slowing down, "Why?"

Harvey shrugged, "Why does he do anything, Gordon? Because that's what he does. He jumps in and fucks everything up. That's who he is. Well, I guess _'was' _ is the proper term now." He flicked ash from the end of his cigarette and looked up at the edge, then down to the body on the fence. "Anyway, Bats confronted Joker on the roof earlier this evening, and was going to take him in, yet again. Harley had set up a sniping spot to cover, but it didn't keep Bats from getting in close." Another cigarette drag, then exhale, "Something in him snapped, Jim. At first he broke J's back; grabbed him, squeezed, and slammed him on the ground. Harley loses it, comes after Bats, he disarms her, then she goes to grab Joker and run, doubling back over the cable there," He took in another breath and flicked away the cigarette as he outlined the cable. He dropped his arm and sighed, "He lost it tonight. It was hard to see behind the heating unit I was camping behind, but Bats seemed to jump at Harley, nearly knocking her to her death. She managed to tumble and land it, but he took Joker over, and threw him down onto the fence. The clown died laughing."

Gordon leaned back against the wall and dropped his head. "I can't believe this…" His voice trailed off.

"I don't get it: they were right at the edge of a building, why jump at them?" Harvey wondered aloud, staring at the ground. His eye caught something for a moment, and he bent down to pick it up. Gordon saw him pocket something, and Harvey caught his eye, "Dropped my lighter." He looked back at the body and whistled, "He finally lost it, Jim. All his talk of having a code, and he finally snapped." Harvey kicked the ground under him and began to walk away, "He ran off pretty quick when your guys started showing up." Harvey made it to the end of the alley and turned back over his shoulder, "Once you cross that line, it gets easier to justify crossing it again. I should know; I've crossed it plenty of times."

When Harvey turned the corner, Gordon thought he heard the sound of a metal _PING!_, but he could not see any source of the noise. He turned back to the body: the men were cutting the metal bars around it to preserve the scene. _Why now? _Gordon thought, trying to find an explanation for this death. _No matter how heinous his crimes, how evil he was, we made a pact. We made a deal to never cross that line._ Gordon turned away from the scene. _That line is what makes us different from them._ He opened the door to his car and took one last look at the body. That blood-caked grin stared back at him, almost into him. _That line is what keeps us from being monsters._


	2. Chapter 2

Dr. Harleen Frances Quinzel sat alone in the darkness of the sewers sobbing quietly. Around her were hundreds of pictures, wet and dirty from the sewage filth, of the man she had loved more than life itself. Nearby lay a manila folder with documents spilling out; it was Joker's original file that she had stolen while she still worked at Arkham Asylum. His grinning visage stared up at her from a thousand directions, boring into her, blaming her, shouting at her.

She did not feel the chill of the wind that blew through the tunnels even though she had discarded her costume along her run to this secret area. All remnants of Harley Quinn were scattered among the pictures, her costume now just an homage to a dead man. _But he is my dead man, _she thought to herself.

Three nights ago, Batman had swooped down and tossed away the one thing in her life that she loved, the one person she would die for. Instead, he had died for her. Tossed like a ragdoll onto those metal spikes, cackling as his lifeblood oozed out of him, comforted only by the man who put him there. She could not even hold him as he died because that brute was looming over her love.

Her love. What would she do without him? She looked down at her hand and noticed her skin shining in the dim light, so pale and smooth. Now she felt the wind brush against her, all around her, and smelled the stink of her surroundings. She looked down at her hand and saw the vial she had taken from Jonathan Crane's old office. Funny; though the doctor was locked in Arkham since his spree as the Scarecrow, his office remained untouched and bordered with police tape.

The vial she held was a small dose of a heart-stopping toxin that Crane had developed. Tasteless, colorless, odorless, and undetectable. The heart would stop almost immediately upon ingestion; the victim would be dead in an instant. She had taken this vial with the intention of ending her pain and misery.

As she stared at the poison, she felt her eyes burn with tears again. She gripped it in her palm, then threw it across the tunnel, her scream drowning out the sound of shattering glass. Harleen would not end her life so cowardly; she would end it in pain, just as he had. That's why she had come here, to this place of stench and darkness. She sought refuge with the monsters. She sought her death with the monsters.

"Solomon Grundy…" She heard a faint grumble and spun. Grundy was here; the immortal monstrosity created in a swamp decades ago now haunted the underbelly of Gotham's sewers. She jumped into the water, unfazed by the cold, dirty water engulfing her naked form. "Born on a Monday…"

She swam along the tunnel, racing to her goal, her slender body cutting through the current. "Solomon Grundy…" She heard footsteps nearby, along the cement walkway. She climbed onto the ledge, the rough cement scraping against her skin, but she paid no attention. She stood, listening again, "Born on a Monday…"

She turned the corner and paused for a moment, marveling at the creature's size. Solomon Grundy was easily seven feet tall and had the musculature of a body builder. His hands were enormous, his feet the same. He had pale gray skin and his hair was snow white, a contrast to the tattered remains of his black suit, the only clothing that remained from before. He turned towards her, his face a mixture of mild interest and irritation. Wrinkles lined his face and his eyes were dark and menacing. "Solomon Grundy…" His speech was dark and rumbling.

Harley charged at the beast, leaping up to strike him in the face. The monster grabbed her easily and tossed her aside. She hit the ground on her back and winced, her bare skin tearing against the jagged cement bricks. The pain was a blessing. The pain reminded her of how he died. She had let the masked vigilante murder him, the least she could do was endure the same amount of pain that he had before she followed him into the abyss.

Grundy began to turn away from her, "Born on a Monday…" He muttered, shambling back down the tunnel. Harley leapt to her feet and shouted at him.

"Hit me, you big, dumb beast!" She leaned against the wall, rubbing her back. She looked at her hand; she was bleeding.

"Solomon Grundy…" The monster stopped and turned around, now thoroughly annoyed.

Harley raced at him, dodging his first attempt to grab her, and landed a blow on his nose, staggering him for a moment. "Is that the best you can do?" She shouted at him. She punched him again in his solar plexus, and then drew her hand back, feeling the pain from striking his solid frame.

Grundy regained his balance and struck back, returning the face shot. Harley's head snapped back, her body stumbling backwards until her foot lost its grip, sending her down. The ground met her with no mercy, and her skull rang with the impact. Her nose was now bleeding profusely, broken apart from Grundy's well-aimed punch. The pain was beginning to spread throughout her body, baptizing her in a blaze of excruciating agony. _Was this how you felt, my love? _She wondered. _Fearing for your life as the Bat came down upon you, ending your life in a flash?_

Grundy came at her again, and punch for punch she could not match him; his strength was surprisingly matched by his speed, and she was losing the battle. She meant to. Her body was bruised and broken before Grundy turned away again, feeling he had dissuaded his attacker. Her blood flowed from her broken nose, a gash in her thigh, her torn scalp. She leapt at him, screaming, and Grundy grabbed her head in midair, swinging her into the wall. She heard her skull crack. She felt the darkness wash over her as Grundy tossed her body into the water. Cold swept her up, and filth carried her on. She floated down the river of sewage to her end.

* * *

><p><em>Joker is dead<em>. The thought echoed through Bruce Wayne's head while he swung between buildings through the Gotham night. The image of the Clown Prince of Crime, his body in spasm as he went into his dying throes, was burned into his mind. Four days had passed and the world kept turning, or at least for most it had. Yet Bruce was still haunted by the act he had committed.

Batman was a symbol of good, as he had been for years. He had brought many to justice during his crusade, but he always held onto one principle: Batman does not kill. No matter the situation, no matter the crime, no matter the _criminal, _killing was never an option. If he killed, what separated him from the scum he hunted? Two-Face had killed Carmine Falcone. _Harvey_ had killed Falcone, and for that, he was hunted down by Batman and Gotham Police. As much as Bruce sought to end Falcone's hold on the city, murder not a part of his plans.

And yet, the Joker was dead.

As sick as it sounded, it felt as though a part of Bruce's life was gone. _He doesn't deserve pity, _he thought to himself. Yet, neither did he deserve murder. What was Batman without Joker? Whether he admitted it or not, Bruce Wayne could always count on the Joker to find a way free and keep him busy. _What am I thinking? What kind of sick person mourns the death of a psychopath?_ He landed on the edge of the Gotham Police Department and sighed, _A person with a guilty conscience, _He admitted.

Police Commissioner James Gordon stood on the opposite ledge gazing off into the distance. He held a cup of steaming coffee and a thick cigar. The cigar was lit.

"Jim…" Bruce's voice drifted off. He was unsure of how to start this conversation.

Gordon exhaled a plume of cigar smoke and turned slowly, his face devoid of emotion. "I figured you would show up eventually." His voice was flat and cold; it did not sound like the normal warm and gruff voice of an old friend.

Bruce stepped forward slowly, his eyes meeting Gordon's. "I'm sorry, Jim. I-"

"Just let me say my piece, I don't want to…" He paused, starting his thought over, "You lost control." Gordon looked away, taking a sip from his mug.

Batman hung his head, "It was an accident. I thought, with him being paralyzed-"

"You broke a man's back before throwing him to his death!" Gordon spun, cutting him off.

Batman stepped forward, "I didn't throw him. Harley, she was hanging onto him too tightly when I tackled her."

"Tackled her off of a building, I might add. With a paraplegic hanging off the edge."

"I caught her. I caught myself."

"But you didn't catch him, did you?" Gordon shook his head. "I know I should be happy the bastard is dead. Hell, all of us should be. In fact, if he had died any other way, I would be. But he didn't. You killed him. _You lost control_."

"I don't need to be reprimanded by you-"

"And maybe that's the problem. You think you are above me, above this entire situation. You lost your grip, Batman." Gordon stepped towards Batman, his voice rising in anger. "If you were in control, Joker would be in a cell in Arkham. If you were in a control, he would be able to walk. If you were in control, you wouldn't have nearly murdered another criminal too! Suppose you hadn't caught Harley?" Gordon ran his hand through his disheveled gray hair and tilted back his head, "Oh, hell, and let's not forget about Harley! You killed her boyfriend! What do you think she's going to do? If you'll remember, you let her go while you ran off, rather than stay and meet me at the crime scene." He snarled at Batman, stepping close enough for Bruce to smell the mix of coffee and tobacco. "Every single one of those freaks now has an icon to rally around. You made a damn martyr out of him."

Batman stood still as Gordon fumed, but just under his expressionless face was a boiling mass of guilt and anger. Had he snapped? Was it all really his fault? Was he truly losing his grip on everything?

Gordon stepped back and took a few breaths. "Look, I know you have always meant well, and your help has been key in a number of investigations, but…" He paused, rubbing his eyes, "It's probably best if we part here. I can't… I can't be working with someone who… can't control himself."

The words hung in the air, wrapping into Bruce's mind, but not quite making sense. "So, you no longer are going to work with me?"

Gordon turned over back and gazed with empty eyes at Batman, "No, Batman. This office can no longer be working with a murderer. I was already on the hot seat for working with you before, and now that the Joker is dead… Well, an arrest warrant for manslaughter is a lot harder to work around than the usual 'interfering with an investigation' stuff." He began making his way back to the roof access door. "If this happens again, Bats," His eyes locked with Batman's, "I _will _have to take you in."

The door shut, leaving Batman alone with his thoughts. There were many that plagued him.

* * *

><p>Police Commissioner James Gordon was a dedicated man. He worked long hours at a thankless job that many would cringe to take. His wife, Sarah, never complained about his schedule, not the sleep he lost while letting his mind dwell on the numerous cases that swarmed his desk, not to mention the number of phone calls in the twilight hours that woke both of them from their slumber. It was hardly a rewarding job, but Jim Gordon did it with pride.<p>

He sat at his desk; pictures of the Joker murder sprawled across his desk, and puffed on his cigar. _How had it come to this?_ He questioned, propping his feet up on the table. _Years ago, before this, before Hang Man, before Holiday, we all made a pact: Harvey, myself, and the Bat. We made a pact that we swore to uphold._

Perhaps letting Batman go was too kind. Should he have taken him in? Is one murder all that he should expect? The Joker was dead, and Batman the killer; was it hard to imagine that this could occur again? He thought back to Harvey Dent's words, "Once you cross that line, it gets easier to justify crossing it again." Harvey did know; he had killed Carmine Falcone, countless thugs, even Sophia Falcone. Harvey's rehabilitation had given him a certain insight into the world of Gotham's crime world.

While Gordon did not approve with the court's decision to free Harvey Dent after his extensive amount of psychotherapy and reconstructive plastic surgery, he had to admit that his past life as Two-Face did make him somewhat of an authority in dealing with these madmen. That could be why Batman chose to take him under his wing and have him assist him in stopping and preventing crime these past few months. Dent had spent much time with the Dark Knight; he trained in combat, learned methods of stealth, and in return educated Batman on what he knew about the underground world the criminals thrived in. Gordon knew this because Batman passed the information on to him. Harvey's turn to the light was beneficial for everyone. Everyone except Two-Face.

Gordon shook the memories free and took one last glance at the pictures. _That hideous smile._ He placed them into the folder and slid it away from him. Noticing the clock now read 10:00 pm, he cursed to himself and grabbed his coat. Yet, as if the building itself was begging him not to leave, his phone rang from his desk.

Gordon stared at it as it rang a second time. _If I don't answer they'll just call my cell phone._ He rationalized, and picked up the phone. "This is Gordon."

A panicky voice responded, "Gordon? This is Officer Werck. We have a situation down in the sewers off of Holly and 25th street."

_Damn it. What I wouldn't give to be in bed before midnight for once this week. _"What's happened?"

"I'm not really sure, sir. Lots of blood, pictures of the Joker everywhere, and a costume that we think belongs to Harley Quinn."

The Commissioner's heart stopped for just a moment, "Harley Quinn?"

The officer sounded concerned, "Yes, sir. We're almost positive it's her costume. We're collecting blood samples now, but we can't find a body."

Gordon was already planning everything he would need to launch the investigation. Suddenly, his fatigue had ebbed away as a new panic took him. _Had he done it again?_

Somewhere outside, a metal _Ping!_ sounded.


End file.
